Bryn
Where are we going? I’m almost bowled over by a man balancing a carton of protein bars on his head. Could Greyson even hear me? He moves his hand sharply, rolls his wrist and flicks his fingers. At my blank look, he shrugs and hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me close. A moment later, a you’ll see drawls into my head. My ears burn and I lean away from him, but when a woman with hips broader than a flesh-heifer’s rear bears down on me, I’m glad for Greyson’s steadying arm as he ducks and weaves us past. He uses his right shoulder as a battering ram to push through the masses, dragging me behind in his wake like a balloon on a string. How can people breathe down here? I feel crushed, my lungs shrinking to the size of raisins, and I want to peel off my skin as everyone keeps touching me as if they have a right!
I’ve only been to Level Eight once before for a school trip in seventh year to the farms. We’d watched in horrified fascination as heavily muscled flesh-heifers were harvested like onions being peeled, the animals’ liquid-brown eyes, the size of oranges, blinking slowly, dull.
It’s more than crowded here, it’s like being compressed, crushed by the stuffy warmth of squishy flesh and hard jabs of elbows and knuckles. People are shoulder to shoulder as far as I can see, bulky modes bobbing, lips forming half words and appendages waving in some secret, silent language amid the steady roar of sound. The narrow walkways and tall, multi‑storey buildings create noise tunnels, sucking in every sound and amplifying the cranking of machinery, the bustle of people and … what’s that? A steady, pulsing hum with a screech tagged at the end vibrates up into my skull. Then it dawns on me. It’s the rotating blades keeping the station in orbit! How can these people stand it? The repetitive droning, once noticed, can’t ever be unnoticed. I feel it in my teeth!
Maybe Lenora was right, all this cloak and dagger stuff isn’t worth it. But I want to know. I want to know who Jonas was, why my memories were stolen, and where the Evicted went. I want to find out my station’s secrets and the mysteries I thought only existed in stories. This is like a virtual quest but in the real. But it isn’t too late for me to change my mind, call my friends, and have a real-life catch up.
Lenora changed her mind.
She walked away, claiming she’d worked too hard to risk the potential fallout. I’m tempted to join her, tell her I agree, and maybe get a boost in rank while I’m at it, but Greyson’s tugging on my arm like he owns it, and it’s too late to say anything. My curiosity whispers: Don’t you want to know? What you felt when Jonas called you Bumble Bee? If there really are people living beneath the station? Wouldn’t that be something?
Another part of me, small at first, keeps nagging and nagging, wondering if all this has something to do with the strange distance growing between my friends and me. I’d do anything to fix it, go to the edges of the station and beyond, to knit us back together as we were.
Greyson pauses, waiting at a crossroad for a gap to squeeze through, and brings his lips to my ear. His breath is hot, pitching his voice so he isn’t shouting, but I can hear every word. “Not far now.”
I barely nod before Greyson spots some non-existent lag in traffic and shoots off, shoulder first and head down. My feet hurt. People are treading on my toes and I can’t see anything past the heads and shoulders of Bottom Dwellers. Tucking my chin against my chest and keeping my eyes on a loose thread of Greyson’s hoodie keeps the claustrophobia at bay. The smell of sweat and mildew settles against the back of my throat and I swallow, shuddering uncontrollably as I imagine all the things I’m breathing in.
Greyson squeezes my hip and I glance up.
What? I growl, wishing he’d let go, but frightened he will.
Greyson jerks his chin and I follow the motion.
The neighbourhood block ahead of us is a dark blight on a colourful, noisy world – its eye-like windows are shuttered and the grungy grey walls swallow nearby light like solar systems spiralling into a black hole. The thin metal gangways are set evenly across its concrete skin, fine cracks creep from corners like spiderwebs and bruise-coloured rot grows beneath ledges, but my gaze settles on the entrance. Bones. It’s made of glowing, yellow bones.
Seriously?
He nods, grinning. Against my side, I feel the tension in his body, his arm around me like a steel clamp.
Welcome to Bone City. Stay real close, he orders, as if there’s any other option.
His tight grip on my hip will leave bruises, but I match his stride as best I can and ignore the grinning skulls, the chipped eye-sockets and the crumbling white powder we stir up in our wake. The entrance leads to a low-ceilinged passageway, lined with even more bones, layered so deep in spots I could reach out, if I had the guts to, and trail my fingertips on the walls either side.
Where are we? I ask.
You hear of Chaim Bones? Greyson returns my question with one of his own.
Should I have?
No. Least popular person on the Triumph. He’s a … Greyson gathers his thoughts. A trader.
A trader? The tunnel of bones suggest it isn’t in anything pleasant.
If anyone can help, he continues, it’ll be him.
Human shadows blend against the bone walls at random intervals, dressed from heel to fingertips in full-body modal suits and carrying heavy batons. They wear menace like a second skin, screaming hired thug. Rather than the protective cold justice of Mediators, welcome as long as it’s directed at someone else, these guards hum with a mix of glee and rage, as if begging to be unleashed.
Keep hush, Greyson murmurs as we approach the door where a man rests an outdated touchpad on his rounded belly. His suit is a peachy-beige, neatly pressed, but bone dust spoils the legs of his trousers.
“Mr Ward,” he begins in an oily voice. “You’re early. And you’ve brought a friend.”
“He free?” Greyson asks, stretching to his full height. The suited man frowns, peering up.
“Depends.” The man taps at his screen and his lips press tight together with displeasure. “Mr Bones can see you now,” he jeers. “Best you follow me.”
Double doors ease open and we step into a huge space. The centre of the building has been gutted, lit by a massive solar-light hanging high above a black and white tiled floor, sending shards of shadow out from our feet like broken glass. Thickly padded lounges upholstered in lime green and plum purple fabric form little nooks, perfect for sharing secrets.
The suited man leads us off to the side and down a dozen or so well-lit stairs. The guard at the bottom opens another door, and through another room there’s yet another door.
What is this place?
Greyson doesn’t answer. Or doesn’t hear me. I’ve no idea with him.
Beyond is a long narrow room, strategically lit so the eye is drawn to the figure at the end, enthroned at a desk, and looking down on us. Along the walls are guards and a light on their modes pulses a dull green. Greyson releases his tight grip around my waist, instead leading me forward with a hand on the small of my back until we reach some unmarked line. My hands sink into my pockets and I grasp the glass marble, rolling it between my fingers in an effort to stay calm.
“Bryn, this’s Bones. Chaim Bones.” Greyson’s voice has a wry edge to it, as if he’s both fond of this man yet at the same time distrustful.
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“Ah, Miss Morgan, you’re far from home.” Bones’ modes only cover one side of his face. His bare eye is disconcerting, a blank, sightless blue marble – nothing like the green one I’m squeezing like my life depends on it.
His blank eye twitches to Greyson, as if he could see him. Maybe he can.
“And Greyson, my lad, this’s a sure pleasure.” The man’s posture’s open and relaxed, and if it weren’t for that creepy eye, I’d think he’s a friendly guy. He doesn’t even blink. Aren’t eyes meant to blink?
“Bones,” Greyson replies formally with a stiff nod.
“Your last assignment’s right done?” The man inquires, leaning forward in his chair. Greyson hesitates then gives a half shrug.
“Yeah, you’ll get them, but this isn’t about that. We’ve questions. What do you know about the under station?”
Bones doesn’t move, his one eye steady as he evaluates first Greyson and then me.
“You glitching know,” Greyson continues. He’s trembling, his fists clenching tight and his jaw quivering with suppressed rage. Have I missed something? “And my ma?”
Yup, I’ve missed something.
Bones straightens, his smile gone, and, with a glance, he dismisses the suited man who’s been hovering like a smug bug by his desk. The guards’ modes switch from green to red and a heaviness settles in the air. Technically, Bones, Greyson and I are the only ones left in the room.
“I reckon your mother’s real safe,” reassures Bones, crossing his arms and watching us with an intensity that makes me feel two inches tall.
“You reckon?” Greyson spits. “Where’s she? Why’d you keep it from me?”
Bones splays out his arms in a it was just business gesture and Greyson growls, ready to leap across the desk and take a swing at the smirking man. Or gouge out his remaining eye. I’m not sure if I would, or even could, stop him if he does.
“We got word the Mediators were scrambling a raid and your Ma was smuggled quiet-like from the station.”
“When I was busy doing your bidding,” Greyson interrupts. He’s half-boy, half-man. His anger burns hot and blinding, and in every minuscule twitch of muscle, in every shuffling step, is a desire to lash out.
“She made her choice, boy, as did you. I owed you nothing, I still owe you nothing. Best you remember that.” Bones is firm, his eye piercing, and on a normal person they’d have melted into submission. Not Greyson.
“Send me,” Greyson says without hesitation. Does he remember I’m here?
“You know,” Bones says, dryly, “you aren’t the first Ward to ask me about Undercamp.”
“My pa?” Greyson steps forward and I expect the guards to lunge towards him. They stand still as power-downed bots.
“Indeed. Fourteen years ago. And now you. The two of you.”
“Can you?” I surprise myself when my voice remains steady and I know I’m making a big mistake, because what do I know of any of this? How much do I even know about Greyson? He’s only a boy, an almost man, who I’d gone to school with and easily unfriended before a week had passed. “Can you send us there?”
Greyson flashes me a small smile. Suddenly he’s just a boy again, just as uncertain as me.
“Can I? Course! Will I? Perhaps. Nothing’s ever free,” Bones shrugs, leaning back and interlocking his fingers across his chest.
“What did my ma pay?” Greyson frowns, turning his attention back to the man lording over us on his high throne.
“You, Greyson.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “She paid with your continued ignorance. To keep you safe from Eviction.”
“So you could use me?”
“You always got a choice, lad. You can walk away.”
For a tense few seconds Greyson looks about ready to spin on his heel and storm out, maybe set fire to the building, too, and depressurise the entire neighbourhood like enemy forces would salt the earth back when our people were planet bound.
“I don’t have any credits,” Greyson finally says, swiping his wrist and allowing the balance to hover in bright green numbers above his skin. His face is flushed and his arm shakes a little before he deactivates the reading.
“There’re things of higher worth,” Bones says.
“You know I don’t have anything else.”
I want to help, offer what credits I have, but all I can think of is the green marble in my pocket.
“I think I can prove otherwise. For instance, your father left you something real remarkable.”
“His lab?” Greyson asks, lips twisting as if pained.
“What would I do with that?” Bones’ smile is sharp and his blind eye whirls in its socket. “I meant your animatronic.”
Zipper? The metal cat with the soft purr and kind, mismatched eyes?
“No,” Greyson utters, frowning. “Something else.”
“I’m afraid not, lad.” He offers, his palms up, as he shrugs one shoulder. “Your father’s AIs are in a league of their own. That’s the price.”
Greyson stands still. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing, and I figure he’s talking to Zipper. Whatever they’re saying, Greyson is furious, his jaw clenches and he’s shaking. While I can’t remember my so-called brother, if it was one of my mothers who’d been Evicted, I’d hand over the pet in an instant.
Zipper twists from Greyson’s hood, runs her raspy tongue against his cheek, leaving a stripe of red, and leaps for Bones’ desk in a single bound. Her claws scratch across the screen, though Bones doesn’t seem to care or notice. A private message passes between the cat, Greyson and Bones, and I itch to know what it is.
Then Greyson lurches forward with a painful grunt of denial, his chest slamming into the desk as he reaches for Zipper, but she skips away until she sits directly in front of Bones, watching him intently with her big eyes.
“I won’t let you!” Greyson shouts.
“She’s made the decision for you, boy.”
The glance shared between Zipper and Greyson is heart-wrenching. Bones flips open her face-plate and initiates a command. Her eyes flicker and turn off, her body going stiff and lifeless.
Greyson buckles, dropping to his knees so hard even I wince as they crack against the floor.
“We both get what we want this way,” Bones says and reactivates Zipper, her eyes switching on to glow eerily straight ahead.
“Not this way,” Greyson mourns.
“What’s happened to her?” I whisper.
“A system reset,” Bones informs. “I’ll retrain the AI to be something more useful.”
“She’s … it’s a mindless bot now,” Greyson murmurs. I frown, watching his face lose all colour, and he sways, fingertips pressed white against the tiled floor like they’re the only things keeping him tethered to the real. Is he going into shock? Over a toy? Sure it’s a valuable one, but doesn’t he want to go to Undercamp more?
“And here’s my part of the deal.” Bones’s palm hovers over his deskscreen and a mirror image of his hand shimmers and blinks in time with his pulse. Something chimes softly and a secret drawer eases open, a few centimetres deep and full of a strange assortment of tools: blinking analeptic applicators, hand-held head scanners, and there’s even an embedder, a smooth handled device that uses a sonic pulse-based delivery system to insert and remove wrist credit chips. A ghost of a long deleted memory makes my left wrist flex as if tiny bugs are crawling beneath my skin.
Bones shuffles out of his chair and vanishes behind his desk before he reappears, so short I’ve a clear view of the bald spot bright beneath the neon lights. From the drawer he selects a long barrelled device with a cone-shaped attachment on one end.
“This shouldn’t hurt too bad,” Bones soothes as a reactivated guard grabs my shoulders with hands the size of shovels, gloves creaking as massive fingers dig into my skin.
“Wait! What are you doing?” I squirm, kicking back but the guard doesn’t even grunt when my booted heel makes contact with his shin. I wish I had my sword from Quest Realm. “Greyson!” but he’s restrained too, still kneeling, and he isn’t even fighting it as Bones approaches him, running his hand through Greyson’s hair affectionately before he grabs a handful. Greyson grunts but doesn’t shake the man off. Bones’ device is inserted into Greyson’s left ear, the point of the cone presses deep and I struggle. This isn’t what we asked for!
“There, there, lad. All done,” Bones says, gently stroking Greyson’s head as he shudders, the guard’s grip all that’s keeping him from tumbling. Drawing his hand slowly, almost regretfully, away from Greyson, Bones turns to me and I whimper, twisting and bucking but the guard’s hold is unbreakable.
“What did you do to him?” I hiss, terrified as Bones gestures for the guard to lower my head. I can’t move, my skull cupped in the guard’s hand, keeping me still for Bones to reach up and insert the blunt tip of the device into my ear.
“It’ll be over soon, lass,” Bones reassures. Then a sharp, aching pain digs into my head, piercing like a drill until even my teeth pulse as if each has a tiny heart shattering inside them. I can’t breathe, my mouth twists open so far my jaw cracks but no sound comes out nor air in and a white buzzing mass seems to swallow me.
It takes a while to realise the pain has stopped. The world’s cloaked in a gloomy, cold wash of colours, bleak and dismal, edges sharp and jagged, when once my modes had smoothed and shaped the world around me into something warm and homely. And it’s quiet. There’re no voices in my head, no gentle pings to let me know I’ve received a message, no scrawling posts at the bottom of my vision telling me what my friends are up to. I can no longer access my profile or my stored archives and I can’t record memories or post updates. Not being able to reach out and touch someone whenever I want is like being forced into a steel box with the lights turned off and knowing the walls are creeping in, inch by inch.
“Your Cyberinth chips are switched off, but don’t fear, you’re still Active,” Bones says and I want to slap the slimy look off his face except his blind eye keeps following me, as if he can guess my thoughts.
“I’ve changed my mind.” I shake free of the guard’s hold and step back – one step, two steps – towards the door. “Undo it. Undo it right now!”
“No take backs, lass.” Bones scratches the eyebrow over his unseeing eye with his thumbnail and folds his arms, giving an apologetic half shrug.
“What’s that even mean? If they’ve been switched off, switch them on!”
“I don’t do anything for free,” Bones says slow as if speaking to a kid. “Your friend here’s paid your passage, you should be real grateful.”
I glance at Greyson. He’s still on his knees. Grateful? Is this what I wanted? Had I even been asked?
“But you can undo it? When we get back?” I demand.
“To all intents and purposes, you’re dormant,” Bones explains. I gently touch my ear, the skin tender, and take comfort in knowing it isn’t permanent. “Believe me,” he continues, “when I say it isn’t just for your protection, but for everyone in Undercamp. The Guardian can’t find out about them, elsewise they’ll be eliminated in a more absolute manner.”
Aren’t you curious? Without the other voices filling my head, my own rings even louder. Don’t you want to know?
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